Colonel John Stapp and the Fine Art Of Crashing

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Imagine volunteering to get into a sports car, pushing the gas pedal, and slamming into a brick wall at 120 miles per hour. That’s pretty much the equivalent of what John Stapp did on December 10, 1954, when he buckled himself in to theSonic Wind 1, a rocket-propelled sled, and gave the signal.

Bang! The nine solid-fuel rockets fired, the brake was released, and Stapp went from zero to 632 mph in just five seconds. He endured 20 g on acceleration. A mere 1.4 seconds later, the sled stopped. In an instant, Stapp’s body felt 46.2 g, a force greater than any human being had ever experienced. Every capillary in his eyes burst.

What was the point of all this? Stapp wanted to figure out how much g-force the human body could withstand. At that time, the effects of suddenly accelerating and decelerating were still a mystery. Technology in planes and automobiles was fast advancing, yet the squishy flesh vessel of the human body stayed just the same as it had for the past 10,000 years—and no one knew if it could survive beyond 18 g.

Stapp began experimenting with a rocket-powered sled named Gee Whiz that could accelerate to 90 mph before stopping immediately in a water trap. On its first run, on April 30, 1947, loaded up with ballast, Gee Whiz’s hydraulic brakes failed, and it flew off the track and into the California desert.

Stapp was undaunted. Months of experimentation followed with a 185-pound crash test dummy named Oscar Eightball. But Stapp wanted to give it a go himself. He was reported to have patted the dummy on its head and said: “We’re not going to use these. You can throw this away. I’m going to be the test subject.” And that’s just what he did, conducting tests in which he would go close to 100 mph and reach 10 g before coming to a stop. He walked away from those feeling pretty good.

Then he upped the ante, had two more rockets installed, got back in, and went 200 mph into the water trap. That’s when he turned to deceleration. A pilot could certainly break the speed of sound, but if he was to eject in an emergency, could he survive?

Stapp completed 16 more runs over the next nine months, experiencing up to 35 g. He suffered greatly in his work. He cracked ribs, broke collarbones, and received concussions. He lost his dental fillings on a couple of occasions. He fractured his wrist twice. His job was to design better harnesses, but the straps dug into his torso, and all of this trial-and-error experimentation took a toll on his physique. Perhaps most frightening to a doctor like himself, his vision blurred at above 18 g as blood drained from his eyeballs into the back of his head. This was known as a “whiteout.” Even more frightening would be when the blood vessels would burst: a “redout.” That’s when things got serious.

Finally, in 1953, Stapp went to Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico, where he worked with a new rocket sled: Sonic Wind I, a red beast with nine rockets, capable of generating 40,000 pounds of thrust in five seconds. Before he boarded the rocket sled for the first time, the story goes, he told a reporter, “I assure you, I’m not looking forward to this.”

In that short duration, Stapp’s sled reached 421 mph in five seconds and then slowed to 313 mph when it hit the water trap. In just 200 feet, it decelerated by nearly 150 mph. Stapp’s body experienced a force of 22 g; for a few seconds, he weighed nearly 3700 pounds. “I feel fine,” he said when he climbed out. “This sled is going to be a wonderful test instrument. I’m ready to do it again this afternoon.”

When Stapp made his astonishing 46.2-g run, reporters and photographers from Time magazine were on hand to witness it. “The Fastest Man on Earth!” they dubbed him, and he became an instant celebrity, appearing on the TV show This Is Your Life! and on the September 12, 1955, cover of Time.

His data proved that humans were capable of incredible forces. With the proper restraints, a pilot could survive up to 45 g. His efforts helped redesign harnesses and seat mounts for pilots as well as paratroopers, for transport planes as well as civilian jets.

Even today, anyone who has walked away from a car crash or a jettisoned ejector seat owes a debt of gratitude to the efforts of Stapp. He used his fame to promote automotive safety in the halls of Detroit, calling on carmakers to examine crash data, design their cars for safety, and implement padded dashboards and collapsible steering wheels. In 1967, he joined the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) to begin the first automotive crash tests, this time only with dummies. When President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the Highway Safety Act of 1966, requiring seatbelts in all cars, Stapp stood by his side.

Stapp retired from the Air Force in 1970 with the rank of colonel. He died in Alamogordo, New Mexico, in 1999, at the ripe age of 89, after receiving numerous awards and Hall of Fame honors. He suffered no lasting effects from his rocket-sled adventures: no blindness, no detached retinas. Thanks to his research, many car-crash survivors can say the same.